


To Serve in Heaven

by problematiquefave



Series: The Sum of Our Sins [1]
Category: Fear the Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Drug Use, Dubious Morality, Kidnapping, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-05-13 03:42:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14741382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/problematiquefave/pseuds/problematiquefave
Summary: Nick knows he’s going to die – there, in that alley, high as hell, with fingers around his throat and blue eyes staring into his – but he doesn’t want to. So he fights those fingers until darkness overtakes him. He doesn’t expect to wake up again.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic has been seven months in the making as evidenced by [this post](https://problematiquefics.tumblr.com/post/166317720480/whether-the-spoilers-are-true-or-not-im-totally) on my tumblr. I've had an outline for a while but I finally sat down and started writing.

Nick can’t get away fast enough.

He sits through the funeral, through the impassioned speeches and mournful tears. He sits as Mrs. Johnson talks about her ‘sweet little girl’ who was _so_ polite and _so_ kind and _so_ underserving of her fate. He looks at his lap as Mr. Johnson gets up to the microphone and states, in starts and stops, that while she could be _trying_ , she was still his little girl and her death would leave a hole in the world. He wipes a tear from his cheek as the last of the mourners says their piece; he wasn’t asked to speak and he’s barely welcome in this church. It’s his fault, they think. He’s the reason she got hooked, he’s the reason she wouldn’t stay clean, he’s the reason she’s dead.

Gloria is _dead_.

She died of an overdose. They were at the church and they’d gotten high off heroin she’d bought for cheap. It wasn’t Calvin or Glo’s usual dealer, just someone another junkie recommended if they were looking for a good deal. They were desperate and foolish and Glo… Oh, Glo. She paid for it. She paid a price far higher than she should have.

Nick had woken up beside her. He’d rolled over and reached out to caress her cheek, only to notice how cold her skin was. He tried to find a pulse, a breath, or a heartbeat but there was none to be found. She’d overdosed and he was so out of it that he didn’t know until too late. Until she couldn’t be saved.

At a loss for what to do, he stumbled out of the church, pavement digging into his bare feet as he tried to get as far from it as possible. He didn’t see the car coming until it hit him. Someone called 911 and he was taken to the hospital, ribs aching and mind in tatters. He’s not sure what he said on the ride there – he was too hysterical – but it was something about Gloria because, at the hospital, the police questioned him about it. He clammed up when faced with their badges, and Madison did a good job of scaring them off, but they found the church, they found Glo, and her parents were finally able to have peace.

After being released from the hospital, his mother had stuck him in rehab and he’d gone without complaint – drifting through life, going through the motions as he remembered her cold skin and unmoving chest. He’d said little but he made one thing clear: he wanted – he _needed_ – to go to her funeral. His mother got him a day pass and though the Johnsons didn’t want him there, they let him stay.

But now it’s over. The funeral ends and they lower the coffin into the ground. Mr. Johnson shovels the first dirt onto it and, as it hits the wood, Nick stumbles away from the crowd. He props himself against a tree and pukes into the roots. Gloria is dead. Gone. Never to be seen again. Tears stream down his face, his chest heaving and diaphragm constricting. He hiccups and gasps, his lungs refusing to work properly. He needs to get out of here. He can’t take this anymore. Nick needs to go.

So he does.

His feet pound against the ground – it seems deafening to his ears but not a single person calls after him. They’ve got their own grief to deal with. The junkie they partially blame for their loved one’s death? So low on the list of priorities that it’s not even worth mentioning.

Nick has no destination in mind. He just runs and runs, red blotches on his faces and tears clouding vision. His mother is going to be _pissed_ when she shows up to take him back to rehab and finds that he’s bailed but… Nick doesn’t care. He can’t. It’s all so pointless. Gloria is dead and he would give anything – _anything_ – for it to be him and not her.

Though he doesn’t intend to, he finds himself at the church. There’s a new padlock on the gate and yellow police tape over the front doors. It isn’t the first time there’s been effort to keep the junkies out. It had been raided a few times over the years. There were a hundred ways to get in out that weren’t the front door – that’s why, even after those raids, they kept coming back. Nick finds a broken window in the back and crawls in, landing with a thud on the cement floor. It’s dim and musty inside – somewhere faintly in the distance, he can hearing the squeaking of rats and dripping of a broken pipe. It’s still a shithole of a place, eerie and haunted, but it’s so much better than the church where they’d held Gloria’s funeral.

Loosening his tie, Nick pads through the building, looking for signs of life – and not of the rodent variety. There’s none to be found. Maybe the junkies have finally abandoned this site though, he presumes, they’ll be back in time. For now, he’s unbothered by having it to himself. His search for life shifts into a search for a stash. There has to be _something_ around here and, after today, he needs a pick-me-up, rehab and sobriety be damned. It takes some effort – junkies can be quite crafty when it comes to finding and keeping their next fix – but he eventually discovers a bag of heroin tucked away in a water-stained bible.

He doesn’t think twice about pocketing it and going up to the rafters, up to the place that Gloria and he once called their own. The mattress is gone but he doesn’t care. He finds his supplies, hidden behind a panel in the wall, and sets about his preparations. Spoon, lighter, syringe – it’s easy to do without much thought. He’s done it hundreds or thousands of time before. Though overwhelmed with grief, he knows these motions by heart.

It’s all worth it. The prick of pain from the needle, being in this place that makes his heart heavy – once the drug is in his veins and the high has consumed him, it’s all worth it. He falls backwards, head hitting the floor with a thump. He looks at the vaulted ceiling, tracing the cracks with his eyes. He doesn’t think, doesn’t feel, doesn’t cry. He just stares, and stares, and eventually passes out.

 

 

It’s night by the time Nick regains awareness. His brows furrow and he presses a palm to his forehead. There’s a throbbing behind his skull and a sluggishness in his limbs. It feels like there’s molasses in his veins. A part of him just wants to fall back into the darkness, to let it wash over him and drag him into a state of not knowing, not caring. He almost lets it – until he hears a crash from below and a shout.

“Nick!”

It’s his mom.

 _Fuck_.

Nick staggers to his feet, frantically looking around. He can’t see his mom but he can hear her. She’s got to be downstairs which means his escape options are limited. He can either try to make it back to where he came in or…

He is going to break his legs.

Swearing to himself, not for the first time in such a short period, he approaches the clouded window. Pulling hard, it swings up just enough that he can squeeze through – and fall on his face on the ground below. But he’s high which means he’s not thinking straight; he’s only convinced that he doesn’t want to go back to Madison, back to rehab, and back to being miserably clean. He sticks one leg through the window and hoists the other one through, leaving himself half inside and outside. Nick sucks in a deep breath and pushes himself all the way out.

Nick manages to land on his feet. Pain reverberates up his shins, though his knees, and into his hips. Despite that, he lurches away from the church and back into the street. He sees his mother’s car parked by the curb but he doesn’t see Alicia or Travis. Thanking whatever deity is looking out for him, he sets off into an unsteady run, barely avoiding crashing into walls, objects, and people. Like earlier, he has no destination in mind – like earlier, he just needs to be anywhere but here. Anywhere but the church where they held Gloria’s funeral and anywhere but the church where his mother is looking for him.

People shoot him annoyed and disgusted looks. They think he’s drunk or maybe they realize he’s high. It’s not what they’re concerned about. They’re annoyed that he’s gotten in their way, that the sight of him is a blemish on their nights. He doesn’t care.

He’s not sure how far he gets from the church before he stops to catch his breath but he knows he’s in another part of town. Maybe it’s a couple blocks, maybe it’s a couple miles but he doesn’t care – as long as he’s away. When he’s high, time moves strangely. Slow and fast, circular and straightforward. He doesn’t recognize where he is but that doesn’t mean much. Los Angeles is a big city and he’s high half the time he’s exploring it.

He shoves his hands in his pockets and starts moving again, this time at a more leisurely place. Unless she’s got a tracker on him, his mother has no reason to look for him here. He weaves through the crowd; there a lot of people out tonight, laughing and giddy. Music spills out of restaurants and bars, loud and energetic. It’s a hip neighborhood he’s found himself in, where the young people like to party well into early morning hours.

It’s also the sort of place where he’ll be able to find another score.

Nick’s veins are still singing with the last one; his feet feel heavy as he walks, like he’s weighted down with stones. He probably shouldn’t be putting anything else in his body at that moment whether it be more heroin or something else. Not if he cares about himself, not if he cares about living, and… He’s not sure that he does.

Would it be so bad to be with Gloria again?

“Nick?”

For a split-second, he thinks it’s Travis. It has to be, right? It would make sense if Madison recruited him into searching for her troubled-child son. But it’s not Travis. It’s _Calvin_.

“Cal,” he breathes, a grin spreading across his face. Halle-fucking-lujah. Here he was worrying how he was going to score when he doesn’t know the area and doesn’t have any cash but fate, evidently looking kindly upon him tonight, has just presented him with the solution. Calvin will help him out. “Oh thank God I found you.”

“Didn’t know you were religious,” he mutters, eyes narrowing as he looks Nick over. “You okay? You don’t look too hot.”

Nick shakes his head. He can imagines what he looks like – red-faced with messy hair, dilated eyes, and a crumbled suit. He’s looked better but he’s also looked worse. “Long day,” he answers. “I could use a pick-me-up.”

Calvin’s expression remains wary – some mixture of confusion and suspicion. Nick’s stomach drops. He doesn’t need this right now, whatever it is that’s going through Calvin’s mind. He just needs oblivion and the tools to get him there. He doesn’t want to think or feel or _be_. Can’t he accept that? Isn’t that how this always works?

Realizing that the silence has stretched on an awkwardly long amount of time, Nick speaks. “Come on man… Help a friend out? I don’t got anything on me but I’ll get you back. I always do.” And he does, even if it takes some time.

Finally, Calvin says something. “Today was Glo’s funeral, wasn’t it?”

Nick swallows, adam’s apple bobbing. “Yeah,” he answers softly. “It was. It sucked. I just…”

Calvin nods. “I remember when my grandma died. It was rough. Can’t imagine what’s it like with Glo… Has to suck.”

His heart beats with hope. Calvin gets it. He understands. He’ll give Nick what he needs and everything will be good. Gloria will still be dead but he won’t have to remember that. He won’t have to deal with that.

“Come on,” Calvin continues, waving Nick over to one of the alleyways. Nick follows, a skip in his step, trailing behind him as they walk past people who couldn’t care less about them. The alley twists behind the buildings, leading far away from those enjoying the night. He and Calvin are all alone but he’s not bothered by that. He’s grateful, actually. The music is much quieter back here.

Nick bounces on the balls of his feet as Calvin digs through his coats’ inner pockets. It’s way too warm a night to be wearing something like that but Nick decides not to comment on how suspicious it is. Not when he was stumbling around searching for a fix while looking half-dead. Of the two of them, he’s a lot more suspicious.

“I’m usually out here selling molly,” he says as he pulls out a small bag of pills. “Party-goes prefer uppers but a few want something else. It’s Oxy.”

“Oxy is good,” he says, taking the bag from him, turning the pills over in his fingers. It’s eight pills. More than enough; enough to overdose, actually. It’s not his usual drug of choice but it’s what he started on when he was fifteen and broke his leg playing soccer – when the Oxy ran, he turned to whatever else he could get his hands on. Heroin became a favorite. He looks back up at Calvin. “What am I going to owe you for this?”

Calvin looks him over again before shaking his head. “On the house. Sorry ‘bout your girl.”

Nick swallows, nodding jerkily. “Thanks…” He really just wants to take these pills and feel numb. Forget his troubles, forget his grief. Still, he puts on a polite smile. Free shit is free shit and you don’t disrespect that. “I owe ya.”

Calvin steps forward, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Take care of yourself. I’d hate to lose such a loyal customer.” With that, the dealer steps away, heading back towards the lights, music, and people.

Nick stands alone in the back of the alley, with a bag of pills resting between his fingers and a need clawing at his insides. Once Calvin is out of sight, he shakes two pills out into the palm of his hand, adding a third one after a moment for good measure. What could it hurt? A tiny voice in his head tells him to add more, to swallow all eight. To kill himself. He doesn’t listen to that even if he knows his reckless desperation isn’t much better. He tosses the pills back dry, sighing when he can feel them in his throat. Usually he’d prefer to inject but he doesn’t have the supplies. He shoves the rest of the pills in his pocket and decides to explore the alley as he waits for them to take effect.

It twists and turns, separating the buildings between one street and the next. Some people lurk in the shadows but they seem as keen on being ignored as Nick is. He sees some eyebrow raising things – drunks taking a piss against the wall, two people clumsily trying to undress each other – but nothing he hasn’t seen before in the church. Let’s just say, the confessional there is a lot less private.

As the minutes tick by, Nick slowly starts to feel the effects of the Oxy – feels the weight lifting from his limbs, notices his thoughts starting to blend together. He stumbles and catches himself against the railing of a fire escape. He gingerly lowers himself onto the ground beneath it, leaning his head back against the brick wall. His eyes slide shut and it’s not long before unconsciousness overcomes him.

He expects to be out until dawn – or until a cop finds him and tells him to beat it. He doesn’t expect to wake in a panic, gasping for breath. Where is the air? Why isn’t…?

Why is there a pressure on his throat?

Blue eyes stare down at him. There’s a man over him – hard to make out in the darkness but youngish with a blank expression. He almost looks _bored_. He certainly doesn’t look like he’s choking the life out of someone.

His fingers scrabbles at the man’s hands around his neck; Nick tries to dig his nails into his skin but he’s wearing gloves. Those hands tighten as he struggles. Nick tries to buck and thrash, throw off the weight holding him down. “Please— I don’t—” _I don’t want to die_ , he wants to say but can’t. It’s futile. He can’t breathe. His thoughts swirl together and stars appear in his vision. Shadows creep and linger, growing darker and larger. The light is fading. He can only see those blues eyes.

He’s going to die.

It’s his last conscious thought before that darkness envelops him.


	2. Chapter 2

Waking up is not easy.

Nick _aches_.

He’s confused as well. It’s dark when he cracks open his eyes – the room around him is inky black until he adjusts and notices the dim light spilling in from under the door. He fumbles as he tries to stand, failing at first but eventually stumbling his way towards the light. It’s a door. His hands explore the frame, searching for the knob. When he finds he it, he tries to turn it but it refuses to give. Cursing to himself, he feels the frame and the surrounding wall. Anything would be helpful right now but a light switch would be a godsend.

He finds the switch and flicks it upward, bathing the room in a yellow glow. Nick squints, looking up towards the source of the light, finding a bulb set into the ceiling. He lowers his eyes to take in the rest of the room – there’s a full-size mattress on the floor and a bucket in the opposite corner. The walls are off-white and the floor is a navy blue carpet. There isn’t a single window – perfect to hold a hostage, he supposes, but totally against fire codes. Right?

He’s got a feeling that the laws aren’t so simple, though it’d be really helpful if they were right now – or right when wherever this was built. He runs a hand through his hair, fingers snagging on tangles as he looks down at his clothing. He’s still wearing his clothes from the funeral but the suit jacket and tie are gone along with the loafers.

Nick slides across the carpet, stopping to plop back down on the mattress and lean his head back against the wall. Where is he? What happened?

The memories – which had been lurking at the edges of his mind – come rushing back. His grief hits him like a freight-train but it’s quickly tossed aside in favor of tight fingers around his neck and all-consuming panic. He almost died. He was going to die. Those blue eyes… He remembers the look in them and that look was not of mercy. It was cold, cruel, and empty. Nick’s not dead but he’s a hundred-percent sure he’s not going to like this alternative.

How could this possibly end well?

He sits there for unknown period of time, staring at the ceiling. He plays the memory over and over, turning, twisting, and manipulating – searching for something. Anything. There is, however, nothing to be had but the knowledge that he almost died and that he’s not yet out of the woods. His mouth is dry, lips cracked and throat parched but he’s also got to take a serious piss. Nick glances at the bucket. Is that what it’s there for? If he doesn’t get answers soon, it’s going to be.

His bladder is the least of his concerns though— and he knows it. Somewhere out there, behind the locked deadbolt, is the blue eyed man that tried to kill him. That still could. Nick’s not a threat and he knows that. He’s a hundred-thirty pounds soaking wet. He’s a drug addict, not an MMA fighter. Yeah, it probably would’ve been easier to kill him when he was high and half-unconscious but Nick doesn’t see that as a good thing. This can’t be good. This _won’t_ be good.

But what can he do?

Nick eyes the bucket again. This time, it’s not because he needs to take a leak.

 

 

He’s dancing on his toes, seriously rethinking his plan with a bucket in hand, when he hears footsteps. Nick’s blood pressure spikes, his heart pounding in his chest. Here it is: the moment of truth. He hefts the bucket higher, inching towards the door as the lock clicks and the handle turns. The door opens and a man appears from behind it. His back is to Nick, eyes on the bed, and that split-second before he realizes Nick is awake is all he needs.

He strikes.

Nick brings the bucket down over the man’s head with a satisfying thump. He crumples and though Nick’s blood sings with victory, he knows he needs to be quick. He hops over the downed man, taking off towards the hallway— and lands face-first in the carpet. There’s a hand around his ankle.

He frantically starts to kick and thrash, wide eyes looking back at the man. There’s a grin on his lips and a trickle of blood down his temple. He looks deranged and it’s like an injection of fear straight to the heart. Nick’s struggles return with double the effort but the man manages to wrap his other hand around Nick’s other ankle and drag him backwards. The grip on his ankle finds its way to his throat as the man throws his legs over Nick’s waist.

“Y’know, you give a good fight,” he says. There’s a lilt to his voice, an almost-southern cadence to it. Nick notices it more than he does the man’s words and he claws at his hands. It’s not like his mother’s but it reminds him of hers and those times when he can hear her Alabama roots, even if she hasn’t been home in twenty-some years.

His mom… His sister… Even Travis… Is he ever going to be able to see them again?

“You in there?”

What?

Nick refocuses his attention on the man again. Though he can feel a pressure at his throat, it’s not the same as in the alley. He’s just trying to hold him down, not choke the life out of him. But still… “Get off me,” he hisses, voice rasping.

Much to Nick’s surprise, the hands disappear. He’s still not free to move but there’s no longer a strain on his throat. His fingers rub at the skin as he glares at the man, trying to simultaneously predict what’s about to happen and formulate a plan to escape. Again.

“Well? I know the cat doesn’t have you tongue,” he says, a hint of irritation in his voice as he looks down at Nick. “You gonna tell my why you’re fighting so hard or what?”

“Why I’m…” The words escape Nick before he can even process them. What sort of insane question is that? “Why I’m fighting you trying to kill me? What do _you_ think?”

The man shrugs, unperturbed by the fury and disgusted confusion in Nick’s tone. “I don’t know. That’s why I asked you.” He makes it sound like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Clearly, there is a massive divide in communication between them; rather than bridge it, Nick just glares at him.

The man sighs. “You see, I’ve always had this theory about your type – drug addicts – and that it’s you’re already half-dead. You wouldn’t be putting that shit in your body if you weren’t – or if you didn’t wanna die. So…” He looks up, away from Nick and towards the wall though there’s nothing to see there. “It just doesn’t make sense to me that you’d fight. What’s the point? Isn’t it what you want?”

Well, at least he’s an honest would-be killer.

Though Nick doubts this is his first blood.

“They’re not related,” he forces out through gritted teeth. And he doesn’t care if he had thought about it before – because he had, thoughts worming their way into his conscious mind, whispering, teasing, taunting – because he doesn’t want to die. He wants to see Alicia again. He wants to see his mom again. He doesn’t want to prove, or disprove, this man’s _insane_ theories.

“But aren’t they?” The man tilts his head to the side, looking curiously down at Nick. “Why would you put that stuff in your body if you wanted to live? I saw your arms – I saw the track marks. What do your veins look like?”

“You going to cut me open and find out?”

The words are out before he even gives them a half-thought. Horror rears its ugly head when he realizes what he said but it’s too late to take them back. The man’s lips twitch, curling into a small smirk. It’s a miracle that Nick doesn’t start shaking like a leaf.

“It does sound appealing,” he admits – as if they’re talking about breaking a diet for a piece of chocolate cake, “but no. I want to study your behavior.”

“ _Study?_ ” The word makes him angry. “Like a lab rat?” The anger rolls off his tongue, hot and sharp, though the man’s expression doesn’t change. “I’m not your goddamn _science experiment_.” He’s just not. He’s a person. One with issues, admittedly, but it gives this bastard no right to treat him like some colorful, previously-undiscovered bird.

“I don’t think that’s something you get to decide.” The words are cold, like a bucket of ice water on his indignant fury. He’s not wrong, either. It’s clear which one of them has the power here and it’s not Nick. Not the one on his back, legs holding him down, and a psychopath over him. Nick’s jaw clenches and then loosens, a heavy breath escaping him.

Blue eyes blink down at him.

“Giving up so soon?”

Nick bites back a groan of frustration. “Picking my battles,” he corrects. “I know when I’ve been beat.”

The smirk returns – this time bigger, wider, and brighter. It makes Nick’s skin crawl and distracts him from his hands. They’d been resting peacefully at his side but, before he could process the movement in the periphery of his vision, they’re around his throat again. His fingers tighten and Nick’s breath catches. _No_. His own fingers scrabble to pull them off, digging into skin. There are no gloves this time; just flesh and blood to claw into. Maybe, when his body turns up strangled in an gutter, they can get some DNA.

Because… Yeah, he’s going to die. This isn’t a threat – this isn’t holding him down. This is a man trying to kill him. This time, his eyes are filled with glee instead of boredom. He’s not sure which are better as shadows creep into his vision and stars burst in front of his eyes.

Just as he’s about to pass out, his grip loosens – the hands retreat.

Nick sucks in a massive breath, pushing himself unto his elbows. Their gazes lock as he tries to soothe the pain in his chest and calm his thundering heart.

“Those bruises are gonna last a while,” the man says after a beat of silence.

“Fuck you,” he spits, directing all his fury and hatred into those two words.

The man shakes his head. “Not interested.”

 

 

Despite Nick’s apprehension, there is no more strangulation – which is nice. In fact, the man gets to his feet as soon as Nick catches his breath. He’s watched carefully as he shuts and locks the door but when he offers his hand, the younger man takes it. There’s still an edge to his demeanor, a threat and a warning against any more escape attempts that Nick heeds. He watches and listens as the man points to the bucket, explaining its actual purpose (yeah, it’s a toilet) and that he’ll bring Nick some food shortly. He’s ordered to sit on the bed, which he begrudgingly does, before the man slips out of the room.

Then he’s alone again.

Nick doesn’t know what to think. About the man, about his theories, or about his dim future prospects. He’s going to die here. He’s likely going to be tortured. He’ll probably be strangled. He’s absolutely going to have to use a bucket as a toilet. He’s going to have face withdrawal.

_Withdrawal_.

Damn it. Why did he have to run? Why did have to go to that funeral at all? If he’d just let his mom take him back to rehab, or if he hadn’t asked for that day pass in the first place, he wouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t be at the mercy of an insane psychopath. Because there’s no way else to describe his captor. He’s _insane_. And he’s going to kill Nick.

He pulls his knees up to his chest and buries his head. He’s not going to see his mom again. He’s not going to disappoint Alicia again. He’s never going to get into another snide argument with Travis. No, Nick isn’t the best son, but he loves his family and he doesn’t want to die without getting to hug them again. Even his soon-to-be step-father.

He shouldn’t have run. He shouldn’t have gotten high. He shouldn’t have been the failure of a human being he always is. Now he’s going to pay for that and he doesn’t have a choice.

_He doesn’t have a choice_.

Sighing, he unfurls from the bed. He finally uses the bucket for its intended purpose before pacing a hole in the carpet. He runs his fingers through his tangled hair and tries not to think about what’s happening. Which is hard to do when he’s locked in a basement (presumably) waiting for the man who’s almost killed him twice to return with _food_. He really is a lab rat.

He pauses mid-step when the lock clicks and the door creaks open. The man is more hesitant about entering this time and Nick knows he’s lost any chance at surprise. He’ll probably be dead before he can build up any trust.

“Food,” the man says, lifting a bowl. “Soup. You’re not allergic to anything, are you?”

Nick shakes his head.

“Then enjoy your chicken noodle soup.”

The man motions for Nick to sit on the bed. Biting back his irritation at being ordered around like a child, he complies and accepts the soup when the man hands it to him. It’s not Campbell’s chicken noodle, that’s for sure. It actually tastes pretty good, but he’s not sure if that’s because of the sudden realization that he’s ravenous or because it’s actually good.

Nick doesn’t question it but his eyes do flick to the man. He hasn’t left the room. He’s closed the door and leaned back against it, crossing his arms over his chest. In the harsh light, Nick can see the blood dried on his skin.

“Shouldn’t you clean that up?” Nick asks, pointing to the side of the man’s head with the spoon. In turn, the man’s lips twitch with a grin.

“Worried about me?”

“Not in the _slightest_.” Nick would be thrilled if he dropped dead here and now but he knows that’s not going to happen. He just hates being silently watched like a test subject. Aren’t their rules about scientific tests on humans? Maybe that’s why this guy isn’t a _real_ scientist.

“You should be, y’know? You live or you die depending on me. I keel over, you starve to death down here. You piss me off enough, I get tired of having you around.”

Nick rolls his eyes.

“You got something to say?”

He lets his spoon drop into his mostly empty bowl, setting it aside as he stands. The man’s shoulders straighten, eyes sharp and alert. “I do, actually, and that’s that you can threaten me all you want, sound as scary as you like, and I won’t give a damn about any of it. I’m going to die no matter my attitude, your state of being, or the weather outside. But I won’t go down without fight so give it a try. Hit me, strangle me, do whatever the fuck you want. You aren’t going to scare me.”

Despite what Nicks says, he’s _terrified_. But he manages to keep his chin up, his words clear, and his body still. He can be scared all he wants but he refuses to let this bastard see that. It seems to work.

The man’s only response is, “are you done with that?” He nods to the bowl.

This isn’t going to be easy but Nick refuses to bow. He’ll go to his grave with dignity.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are great and you can also drop me a line on my [tumblr](https://problematiquefics.tumblr.com/) if you feel like it.


End file.
